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On Pajama Jeans, Climbing Fake Rock Walls, and Givers

Last week I went to Old Navy in desperate need of new jeans. I tried to steel myself mentally because jeans shopping? Is right up there with dress and bathing suit shopping for me. It’ll only end in tears and a container of double stuffed oreos.

I grabbed two sizes of the first pair I saw whose crotch wasn’t a millimeter high (as my co-teacher once put it after I’d been tugging on my pants all day, “I think you just have a very high butt crack. You’re not a low-rise girl.” Thank you?), wandered around the store for another fifteen minutes giving myself a pep-talk and trying to put off the inevitable.

Maybe it won’t be so bad this time.

I bet the lighting is totally better now.

These will fit. They’ll look magical. People will stop and stare (in a good way) because of how well they fit. Old Navy will ask me to model them, that’s how good my ass will look in them.

Delusion and I are tight, yo.

So, I went in, grudgingly handed over my selection to the girl working in the dressing room and let her lead me to the nearest open dressing room. I then proceeded to stand, sans pants, in that tiny little box staring at the jeans. Which size do I start with? The size I want to fit in or the size I actually do fit in, but whose number depresses the hell out of me?

I decided to play it safe and go with what would actually fit rather than risk the possible mental break down of trying on something that’s almost guaranteed not to fit.

I pull them on and wait. But the tears don’t come. Hey, these are kinda comfy. And just a little baggy around the waist. Huzzah!

I even tried on the smaller pair and those fit too (!!), but I decided I’d go for the other pair since my dryer will turn regular sized clothes into tiny human sized clothes if I’m not careful.

I wore them to work the next day and holy crap were they comfortable. They stretch and move with me, but don’t stretch out and give me a saggy ass after a few hours. And I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that make my ass look fantastic. I mean, no one has told me my ass looks fantastic in those jeans, but no one has said my ass looks terrible in those jeans, either. And Old Navy hasn’t contacted me yet about being their latest creepy mannequin model yet, but I can only assume that it’s just a matter of time. I wore them for a week straight haven’t taken them off since. They’re so comfortable I’m convinced that Old Navy has secretly bought out Pajama Jeans and is re-selling them under their own name. They’re secret pajama jeans, guys. They’re the skinny mini flare. Click that link back there. You want a pair. Or Eight. Trust me.

In other news, I have officially joined the ranks of those members of the human race who have climbed a fake rock wall (sadly not in secret pajama jeans). Turns out, that shit is hard. Also, it will never fail that just after you’ve gotten done climbing a fake rock wall in a converted office space that’s approximately 10 degrees cooler than hell you will run into your high school crush for the first time in 10 years. Who, I might add, is like a fine wine. Or cheese. Totally like cheese!

Better with age.

Anywho, I totally climbed a fake rock wall and while ridiculously difficult, it was also kind of bad ass.

I’m blurry because I’m so fast! Okay, no. But that is me at what is clearly my most flattering angle, climbing a god damn rock wall, y’all.

In other, other news I’m in love with the song ‘Noche Nada’ by Givers. Like, listen to it 18 times in a row, in love with it. Tell me what you’re in love with right now?

Totally missed that there was a link up there! But I can’t imagine anything with “skinny” in the name is going to fit right! And reading the reviews, I see that they recommend ordering a size up, so count me doubly concerned. *hold me*

They do fit snugly in the thigh (hence the skinny, I think), but they’re stretchy so it’s like yoga pants. I’m kind of on the bubble of sizes and I went with the larger of the two. But they’re totally comfy. Promise.